She shook her shining black head despondently, and descended the dusky well of the stairs to the kitchen. Magda was there clattering among her pots and pans; Pat entered quietly and perched on the high stool by the long table. Old Magda, who had warmed her babyhood milk and measured out her formula, gave her a single glance and continued her work. "Sorry about the accident, I was," she said without looking up. "Thanks," responded the girl. "I'm all right again." "You don't look it." "I feel all right." She watched the mysterious, alchemistic mixing of a pastry, and thought of the vast array of them that had come from Magda's hands. As far back as she could remember she had perched on this stool observing the same mystic culinary rites. Suddenly another memory rose out of the grave of forgetfulness and went gibbering across her world. She remembered the stories Magda used to tell her, frightening stories of witchcraft and the evil eye, tales out of an older region and a more credulous age. "Magda," she asked, "did you ever see a devil?" "Not I, but I've talked with them that had." "Didn't you ever see one?" "No." The woman slid a pan into the oven. "I saw a man once, when I was a tot, possessed by a devil." "You did? How did he look?" "He screamed terrible, then he said queer things. Then he fell down and foam came out of his mouth." "Like a fit?" "The Priest, he said it was a devil. He came and prayed over him, and after a while he was real quiet, and then he was all right." "Possessed by a devil," said Pat thoughtfully. "What happened to him?" "Dunno." "What queer things did he say?" "Wicked things, the Priest said. I couldn't tell! I was a tot." "Possessed by a devil!" Pat repeated musingly. She sat immersed in thoughts on the high stool while Magda clattered busily about. The woman paused finally, turning her face to the girl. "What you so quiet about, Miss Pat?" "I was just thinking." "You get your letter?" "Letter? What letter? Today's Sunday." "Special delivery. The girl, she put it in the hall." "I didn't know anything about it. Who'd write me a special?" She slipped off the high stool and proceeded to the front hall. The letter was there, solitary on the salver that always held the mail. She picked it up, examining the envelope in sudden startled amazement and more than a trace of illogical exultation. For the letter, post-marked that same morning, was addressed in the irregular script of Nicholas Devine! 13 Indecision